


need an engine spark to ignite my heart

by vivacissimo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Formula One, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Getting Together, Minor Catelyn Tully Stark/Ned Stark, Minor Oberyn Martell/Ellaria Sand, Past Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Racecar Driver Lyanna, Running Away, gratuitous feminism in motor racing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:01:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27824947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivacissimo/pseuds/vivacissimo
Summary: “I’d have introduced myself, but I get the sense you know who I am,” Lyanna flirts, and the man’s indigo eyes dance, “this is my party, after all.”“Oh I’m certainly aware,” he cocks his head like something is outrageously funny, “I’m the one throwing it for you.”.Or, Formula 1 prodigy Lyanna Stark won't settle for anything less than a world championship. A serendipitous encounter with a stranger who turns out to be anything but reminds her that fortune favors the bold.
Relationships: Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Comments: 11
Kudos: 36





	need an engine spark to ignite my heart

**Author's Note:**

> thot i'd outline this over my lonely break & instead churned out 10k of whatever this is, fun!

It comes down to Dorne in the end.

She’s one single point ahead in the Driver’s Championship, that misogynistic oaf Robert Baratheon and his brawny Red Bull breathing down her neck. A bad crash and three DNF’s due to serious engine issues at the start of the season were the culprit for the tiny gap, but she’s not a person who cares for excuses. Lyanna Stark is a winner by nature, unforeseeable shitty circumstances mean nothing to that sort of ingrained mentality.

Even on a good day, her position was precarious. The first serious _woman_ contender in Formula 1, and only in her second season with Ferrari, she doubts anyone expected her to be where she is now. Top of the table above her seasoned, three-time world champion teammate who she’d been brought onto the team largely as support for. It was thought that a scrappy young driver with a knack for overtaking and a penchant for dogfighting was a good complement to reliable, experienced, and proven Gerold Hightower. She was also a guarantee of constant press for a prestigious team that, embarrassingly, hadn’t won a title in seven years—the media piranhas ate up stories about the nonexistent “romance” between her and Robert, and lost their minds every time she showed a hint of cleavage, which really only spurred her to show more. 

So yes, Lyanna knows exactly why Ferrari brought her up from Sauber, why two years ago they took a chance on signing a 21 year old rookie with a single season of professional driving under her belt. None of that matters now. Because she’s the impetuous Lyanna Stark, of Ferrari Formula 1 Team Racing, and if she wins this last race at Sunspear? She’ll be the legendary Lyanna Stark, reigning World Champion, fastest woman alive.

But first, she has to win this race.

“Who’s here to support you, Lyanna?” 

“Do you think a loss today will discourage women from racing?”

“Will you celebrate with Robert no matter who wins?”

Lyanna laughs and yells back at the throng of reporters, “who’s with me? The spirit of Lella Lombardi, a good hometown girl!” but leaves the rest unanswered, ducking into the Ferrari pavilion to go over the last bits of data with the team. Everyone is already there, including her brother and manager Ned, who lights up upon her arrival. Gerold is as stoic as ever, brows already furrowed, but carrying a marked relaxation in his shoulders that Lyanna’s never seen before. _This is his very last race._ He had announced months earlier that he would retire after this season.

They run through the track one last time, charting graphs that Lyanna is barely able to pay attention to. There’s tension in every line of her body, but she also meditated for an hour this morning so this is as good as it will get. _If you’re nervous, that’s good,_ Lyanna’s father had told her once, when she was fighting for her first go-karting championship as a ten year old. _It means you want something._ She never forgot those words—the moment she lost the feeling was the moment she stopped wanting it was the moment she would give up her seat.

There are other things she wants, naturally. Lyanna is a woman with few close friends or free time, and she hasn’t had a partner in any meaning of the word for years. To be the best in the world in her sport requires ultimate sacrifice, even if sometimes the heaviness in her chest during another night alone in another unfamiliar hotel suite is so painful she can barely stand it. 

If she wins today, it will all be worth it. It has to be.

The Ferrari team principal Mattia kisses her cheeks like a father would a daughter, and whispers words of luck that she doesn’t understand in his warm and familial Pentoshi dialect. She sneaks onto the balcony one last time to look over the hustle and bustle of the crowds. Today was only qualifying, so tomorrow would be even more packed, which was difficult to imagine. It was already hard to breath.

“Stark,” comes Gerold’s weathered tones from behind her, interrupting her thoughts.

“White Bull,” she replies, calling on his nickname forged during his time at Red Bull. He huffs a laugh.

“Nervous?”

“You should know.”

“Sure,” he concedes, “I’m one of the few people who do. There’s something I want to make sure you understand, kid.”

Lyanna looks at him curiously. They’re teammates, yes, but like all teammates they’re better described as bitter rivals who just so happen to wear matching outfits. She was brought in as a support driver and now she’s kicking his ass, overshadowing his farewell season. He’s all the way in fifth place so he wasn’t truly competing for the title, but it was the principle of the matter. Gerold’s been a mentor in some senses, but she supposes he might be going soft now that he has one foot out of the garage already. He claps her on the back.

“If everything goes well today, there’s going to be 30 seconds at the end where you _know_. It might strike you to slow down and savor it. To take stock of it all. But don’t do that. You need to give it everything at the end and become one with that car. Don’t try to think, just go where the instinct takes you. If you’re lucky this won’t be the last time. Even at the last second, don’t you dare look anywhere but forwards.”

Lyanna nods and shakes the hand he offers her with genuine gratitude. He cracks a smile and she sees the lingering parts of the young man he’d been, the disciplined 28 year old she watched win his first championship on the rug of her shared dorm at Barrowtown Young Driver’s Academy. 

“I’ll tell you, though,” he muses, as they make their ways to the garage, pointedly ignoring the cameras, “with me out, you’ll have a good time with the sponsorship. Dragonstone owns brands in everything from coffee to clothes. I haven’t bought a fucking shirt for myself in years.”

That does amuse her, although she doesn’t dwell on it. Ferrari’s main business partners haven’t had too much to do with her, opting to rely on household name and widely respected driver Gerold Hightower for any ad campaigns. It’ll shift to her with him leaving and she’s met the representative, Arthur, a few times this season. He’s easygoing and supportive. She’s definitely not complaining.  
.  
.  
.

“Lya,” Ned interrupts her final preparations in the garage, and she opens her eyes from where she's sat doing breathing exercises. She’s squeezing Ben and Brandon’s hands, and they’re squeezing back just as hard.

There’s thirty minutes to start. She’s on pole, Robert right behind her and Oberyn Martell lined up next to her. The Dornish driver pulled out all the stops for his home crowd, and Lyanna’s as grateful to him pushing Robert back one place as she is wary of their start. The Viper, nicknamed for how smoothly he slithered around corners, was famous for scraping his way through a crowd and leaving anyone who tried to block him with punctured tires or worse. Her fight’s not with him. She needs to keep that in mind.

“Yes, Ned?” she grumbles, rolling her head around to test her flexibility. Her muscles are primed perfectly.

“Uh, well, the Dragonstone bigwigs are here with Gerold and would love to meet you…”

She rolls her eyes. “I’ve met Arthur already. Tell him I say hi. Please don’t bother me with shit like this right now.”

“Right, right,” he agrees, “only it’s not…”

“Only it’s not what, brother?” Brandon sneers, wildly protective as always. Ned gets the message.

Before she gets in the car she listens to the old recording of her mother Lyarra singing the Bear and Maiden Fair for good luck. It’s a lullaby of her childhood, Lyarra died long before Lyanna could really know her, but it’s centering. She’s listened to this recording so much it’s starting to lose it’s magic. Nobody else in the Stark family can carry a tune, and she hopes to hear the song in it’s ribald glory soon, brought to life by someone who might do it justice. Instead, all she has are the haunting tunes of a dead woman.

She trades her headphones for a helmet and gets in the car, touching the weirwood sticker on the side of the inside seat for luck, checking in with the team radio to make sure all’s well. Sixty seconds later the lights go out in Sunspear, and Lyanna doesn’t once look back.  
.  
.  
.

She’s rounding steep turn 1 for what feels like the hundredth time when the team radio in her ear crackles. “Two and a half seconds between you and Baratheon. Three laps left. He’s nine tenths faster, so push if the tires have anything left.”

Lyanna is pushing so hard and her focus so tight that she just copies and takes turn two tighter than she ever has before, flying across the ensuing flat. The Dornish circuit is full of twists and turns, tricky and taunting for most drivers. Lyanna’s lapped it 72 times this race, and probably 150 times including practice and qualifying, to the point that it feels like home.

The voice in her ear revives again, right as she takes the last turn in the lap. “Gap is 3.7 after a battle with Mercedes. He’s now six tenths faster.”

Lyanna blinks. “Am I going to win?” she asks, mostly to herself, but it’s Mattia’s stern tones that answer, having taken the comms for himself. He rarely takes the radio like this, usually only coming on to chastise or comfort her when races are going to pieces.

“Mattia on. You had fucking better, little wolf. Bring her home.”

Lyanna bites her lip so hard it swells beneath her teeth and gives it everything she has left, which is hardly anything. Amazingly, Gerold was right. She doesn’t savor shit, not a single second. Instead she flies like a demon, the most euphoric two laps of her life, and when she crosses the chequered flag line she doesn’t stop either, running another lap at top speed and shrieking her joy and gratitude at Mattia in garbled Pentoshi, the comms guys, her entire team. They’re screaming and praising her in her ear, and when she finally comes to the line again Gerold and Oberyn are both waiting, doing donuts that she promptly joins in on. They’ll be fined for the display, but who gives a fuck? Lyanna is the champion of the entire world. Gerold deserves a proper send-off, and Oberyn is always eager to give a show at his home race. The Dornish fans in the grandstands go wild, and when Lyanna finally gets out to wave the flag of the North in victory, the screams are deafening.

It matches the beating of her heart. She was right. _This is_ worth everything.

Robert throws a pathetic tantrum, throwing his helmet and seething in front of everyone, delaying the procession by twenty minutes with his incessant bad sportsmanship, but she finally ends up on the podium, followed by Robert followed by Oberyn. Her long hair is soaked in champagne, as is everything else any of them could reach, and Lyanna breaks down crying when she sees her brothers cheering her from down below, beaming up at her so bright they might as well be the sun in the sky.  
.  
.  
.

After a whirlwind of press, team toasts, and a battalion of stylists armed to their teeth with menacing beauty tools, Lyanna arrives at her own celebration looking like a million dragons, if she does say so herself. She doesn’t do drugs because her body is a temple, but surely this is what cocaine feels like. Everyone she knows and many she doesn’t has shown up to celebrate alongside her at a hip but sufficiently swanky club. There’s even an amazing full-size replica of her car crafted completely from flowers at the entrance, and Lyanna lets the photographers get all her angles with it so that part of the evening will at least be over with. 

She makes a mental note to ask Ned to get her the Getty codes so she can post the non-watermarked versions to instagram, because she looks so good it would be a crime not to. 

Mattia and Ned usher her to center of the already crowded floor and thrust a mic in her her hands, which she uses to thank everyone profusely and send an abundance of air kisses to her team, her family, even Gerold, ending her speech with a toast to, “Ferrari, the future, and never looking back!” 

Oberyn rescues her from a gaggle of influencers, and his dark smirk is the most genuine she’s ever seen when he congratulates her.

“No Bobby tonight?” he needles her knowingly, and she mimes vomit.

“Good fucking riddance,” she laughs, “although I might have thrown him some ass if he’d beat me. Out of respect.” She’s kidding. She would never sink so low. His answering wink tells her he knows.

“Very lowkey kickback you’ve got going,” he gestures to the extravagant spread, free flowing booze, tasteful but clearly expensive decor, and glitzy guests surrounding them.

“The partners outdid themselves,” she agrees, pleased. “I should probably find them and schmooze for a minute before I get totally sloshed, shouldn’t I?” He gives her a last congratulation before kissing her on both cheeks and moving on to whoever his victim is tonight. Between Robert and Oberyn, the playboy F1 driver cliche is in no danger of dying off anytime soon.

She takes a look around to find the man she seeks. Arthur, the Dragonstone representative, is fairly tall with prominent and striking Dornish features, so it doesn’t take long to locate him—

Lyanna’s breath hitches.

Alongside Arthur is standing the most delicious specimen she’s ever laid eyes on, an otherworldly man of what Lyanna assumes is Valyrian ancestry, encased in a perfectly tailored black suit and a black silk shirt enticingly left partially unbuttoned. He’s quite tall and leanly muscled, tanned with his windswept silver hair pulled into a bun. When his full lips stretch into a brilliant smile, Lyanna bites her own.

 _You’ll be my second prize tonight,_ Lyanna resolves wickedly to herself, a spider approaching the fly as she plucks a glass of champagne from a passing server and makes her way, dodging half a dozen congratulations and assenting to a few selfies as she goes.

She hasn’t had a good fuck in months, focused completely on her body and mind and drive. Now she’s the champion of the world, and the adrenaline still coursing through her veins licks delightfully at all her senses.

“There she is,” the rugged Arthur Dayne grins when she approaches, and pulls her into a bear hug that she returns. “World fucking champion, Lyanna fucking Stark!” She laughs heartily and whoops, allowing him to lift and spin her around in the air.

“Fuck yes, baby!” She raises her glass in a mock toast. Everyone in their vicinity screams along with her and drinks heavily, electric energy sparking through the party. The music thumps even louder and Arthur puts her back down on her feet. She wobbles a bit, placing her hand on the table next to the mystery man she hopes to devour before the night is through, for balance. Well, maybe she does it on purpose. Either way, it brings her into his orbit, and she notes the intrigued glance he passes over her ample cleavage.

Yeah, she brought the girls out tonight. There’ll be nothing left of the Formula 1 boy’s club when she’s done.

“Hey there, handsome,” she pitches her voice low, letting her eyes run down him in a manner that could not be more fucking obvious. She also notes the lack of ring on his finger. Just how she likes them—single and devastatingly sexy.

“Hey yourself,” he responds, amused, and leans out his flute to clink against hers, “congratulations.” They both drink, and Arthur is smiling so hard Lyanna thinks his face might crack. He’s handsome as fuck too. Lyanna has never had two men at once, but first time for everything…

On second thought, as she watches her intended target swallow down the bubbly, just this one will do. 

“I’d have introduced myself, but I get the sense you know who I am,” she flirts, and his indigo eyes dance, “this is my party, after all.”

“Oh I’m certainly aware,” he cocks his head like something is outrageously funny, “I’m the one throwing it for you.”

Lyanna furrows her brow and looks over to Arthur. Isn’t he…

The man winks. 

“Sorry, where are my manners? Lyanna, this is Rhaegar Targaryen. The CEO of Dragonstone, my boss, and somehow, despite being a massive pain in the ass, my closest friend.”

“Charming,” Rhaegar sniffs good-naturedly.

“So what you’re saying,” Lyanna drawls, too euphoric and tipsy to be embarrassed by her lack of recognition, “is that you’re both gorgeous and very rich?”

Rhaegar actually laughs out loud then, and Lyanna joins in, obsessed by how joy lifts his cheeks and emphasizes his blindingly white teeth. She wishes she had paid more attention at the meetings about the new sponsorship deal, to have placed him before walking over, but if she had let herself be distracted by things like that she wouldn’t have her shiny new trophy.

Arthur transparently excuses himself to speak to someone or other, which she takes as an auspicious sign. She turns back to Rhaegar and strikes a ridiculous but hopefully enticing pose.

“Now that you see what you’re sinking millions of dollars into, what do you think?” He appraises her, perhaps in jest, and she does an exaggerated spin. 

She’s being vain. But it’s like she said. This is her party.

“I think you’re worth every penny,” he says, placing her empty flute on the table behind him. “I grew up watching races, you know. The Blackhaven Circuit flies spitting distance from the estate where I grew up, Summerhall. Never seen anything half as exhilarating as your drive today.” His voice is deep, Lyanna muses, and she wants him deep inside her. _Turn down the horny,_ she chastises her brain. Even loose and daring as she is, she knows how important this sponsorship is for her garage and engineers. She can’t fuck that up by throwing herself at him too hard.

“It’s a team effort,” she gives the diplomatic answer, and he clicks his teeth, looking at her meaningfully. She rolls her eyes teasingly, enjoying their banter. “Fine, I worked my arse off to bring that beautiful bitch of a trophy home today, and I’m bringing another one home next season. Is that better?”

“Speaking as a sponsor,” he quips, “immensely.”

“And in your personal capacity as Rhaegar Targaryen?” she ventures, a wicked smirk in place. He licks his lips as if they’ve gone dry.

“You know something, Lyanna Stark? You look like you’re in the mood to ruin someone’s life.” 

That answer pleases her. She closes the air between them until there’s a hair of space left, tracing the lines of his blazer. “Just anyone?” she asks, eyes made innocent. She would be surprised if she looked in a mirror and there were any of her grey irises left. Only the black of honest desire, cause that’s all she’s feeling right now.

He gives her a bemused look, then leans in to place his mouth next to her ear, his hot breath assaulting her neck. She shivers. 

“Congratulations again,” he takes another wash of champagne down that elegant throat and Lyanna is adorably confused until, half a second later, Ned joins them up and introduces himself as her team manager, hastily re-routing the conversation. Her brother was so sweet and so boring. Lyanna rolls her eyes and kisses him on the cheek.

“Neddy, I love you to the ends of the earth, but I can’t think straight enough to talk shop tonight.”

“Of course,” he agrees hastily, “my sister is often single-minded, Mr. Targaryen. Like all good drivers should be. You don’t get to be world champion without it.” Likely Ned thinks she’s being rude, but truthfully if Rhaegar isn’t interested she’s just going to take herself and her bomb pussy elsewhere.

“Of that I have no doubt,” Rhaegar agrees, something lingering in his voice.

“Well it was nice to meet you, sir,” Lyanna throws the man one last insolent look, and makes her way to where her chief engineer, Domeric, is lining up tequila shots for himself and a gaggle of models. He gets an extra one going for her, mezcal instead of tequila per her preference. After she throws it back she squeezes his thigh to indicate that the benefits portion of their friendship arrangement will be taking place tonight. She gets lonely, and he’s always on the road with her after all. A good Northern boy, but nothing more than that. He circles his arm around the waist of one of the girls, a dark-skinned woman with half a dozen facial piercings, and a gorgeous tattoo sleeve of a goddess crowned by fire.

Lyanna gives him a knowing nod. She feels fucking fantastic. She wants to keep feeling this way, riding the wave of her victory, even though sleeping with pretty models is something she doesn’t really do. Why not? First time for everything, and Lyanna is a first time world champion.

They all make conversation, and the model Domeric has in mind is a shameless flirt. Lyanna can’t stop laughing and lets the girl fawn over her arm muscles, which are nice but not that nice. She’s a racing driver, not a rugby player.

There’s a heated gaze on her back that pricks at her senses. She throws back another shot before she dares to look back - it really is unfair how handsome he is, she laments. One of the Kardashians has her arms wrapped around him and Lyanna makes a gagging face. The slight uptick of his mouth warms her pounding heart.  
.  
.  
.

“Thirty-five, thirty-five,” he tears himself away from her neck to tell her, and she smashes the elevator button for the top floor before returning to the matter of great importance she was dealing with before. Namely, his shirt buttons.

The black silk she’s tearing at is as soft as the planes of his chest are hot and hard, and her hands feverishly itch to touch his bare skin. He hitches her legs up higher around his waist, the buckle of his belt rubbing _just right_.

“Fuck,” she moans, abandoning her quest to instead thread her hands into his hair, undoing the bun that was on it’s last legs anyways, and kissing him so hard it surely communicates how bad she wants him.

Needs him, it feels like. It would be unsettling if she were a more cautious woman. But she isn’t cautious at all.

The elevators ding, and they stumble in his room after fumbling for the key card without separating. It’s surely lavish but Lyanna barely sees it, because he whisks her right back up into his arms and sweeps into the bedroom without missing a beat, depositing her on the bed long enough to get rid of his shirt himself before joining her, breathing fire all over her body.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that,” Rhaegar says when he comes back to her waiting mouth. Even his lips are perfect, she thinks distantly, as she teases the bottom one between her teeth. Her palms run all over his chest, before attacking his belt. He hisses when she brushes against his dick, which is big, she just knows it has to be. 

“I’m not usually like this,” she laughs almost unbelievingly against his carotid artery, “but holy shit, the second I saw you I wanted you.” She pushes his pants and briefs over his ass all at once, and is rewarded when he proves her intuition correct, leaving her salivating and so, so ready.

“Yeah?” he asks, but seems preoccupied by bringing her dress over her head to reveal the matching red satin set beneath. Red for Ferrari was the idea. He groans at the mere sight and his dick twitches against her knee.

“Yeah,” she answers firmly, although she has no idea how her brain is still forming lucid thoughts. She needs to slow down a little and recoup. But she doesn’t have that kind of patience, instead sliding the straps of her bra down to reveal her achingly stiff nipples. He gets the message and attaches his mouth to them immediately while she grinds against him mindlessly, feeling euphoric. He brings a hand to her hips and coaxes her to a rhythm that has them both seeing stars.

“You’re so good at sex,” she whines, and he laughs. She gets the sense he doesn’t laugh so much normally, which fills her with pride.

“I’m not normally like this either,” he says, bringing back their earlier conversation, when she flips them over on the big, soft bed, tracing his abs with her tongue. He shivers when she runs her nails over his skin, so she keeps that up. “There’s something about you, Lyanna. You’re a very special woman. You make me…” he loses his words then, frustrated by the inability to articulate how he is feeling.

“Hard?” she supplies cheekily, wrapping her first around him. Her hand is cold, something he suspects is a chronic condition of Northerners, but he likes that sort of thing. It gives the pleasure an edge.

“Yes, that too,” he replies, voice low and quiet, strain in his hips as he tries to keep them still. When she touches her pink tongue to the tip of him, he gives up, and grips her tresses in his hands to control her movements. After a while of generously letting him have control she relaxes her throat as best she can and takes him very nearly all the way inside. His eyes roll back while his hips stutter, and he pushes her off before he ruins what increasingly seems like the most important night of his life.

“ _You’re_ so good at sex,” he says accusingly, throwing her back against the pillows and ripping her incendiary panties off her. 

For some reason, she chooses now to start complaining. “I need you inside already,” she insists, scratching at his back as he descends down her writhing body.

“Patience is a virtue,” he promises against her belly button, winking at her when she glares. Then, to stifle her words, he brings his mouth to her cunt and busies himself at her clit, letting a finger and then two slide into her impossibly wet core. She arches off the bed in response, gasping and grasping his hair.

“That’s almost—oh fuck just a little lower, oh _yes, just there_ ,” she instructs, and he is ever diligent. “Is there anything you can’t do with this mouth?” she moans and he hums against her, which really gets her going if she wasn’t before. When she comes, her thighs are pressed so hard against his face he feels buried, and truthfully he wouldn’t mind if he was.

“By the gods,” she murmurs while he kisses his way up her body, leaving a kiss on the peak of each breast before finding her mouth once more. She’s content just to do that while she recovers, and he runs his hands over her curves as if he is the driver and she, the concourse. The role reversal is delicious. He’s been at various stages of hard for a while, but tracing her makes it truly unbearable, and he hooks her legs around his hips the moment it seems like she’s no longer in a daze.

It may be him on top of her but when she wraps her strong legs around him and sinks him inside, one hand clasped on his chin to hold him in a dirty open-mouthed kiss, the other grasping his ass for depth, it doesn’t feel like he has any control over this whatsoever. He’s lost in the moment completely, and what’s infinitely worse is he doesn’t mind.

It’s not a surprise when she turns to ride him. Lyanna Stark isn’t ever a passenger, she thinks wryly, and places a firm hand on his chest to hold him down. That hint of restraint makes him keen at her, even while he pours his concentration into fucking her well and hard. She almost swats his hand away when he goes to touch her, wanting to make it last longer, but once his thumb starts in circles she throws her head back and stops playing at resistance, taking him as fast and good as she likes, whines and curses falling from her mouth without any attempt to stop them.

“Yes, there’s a good girl, just let go,” he says, eyes half-lidded, clearly on the edge himself. So she does, tightening around him so hard it feels like she’s suffocating his cock and choking out a, “fuck, baby, come with me.”

He’s very obedient, some small part of her brain registers. The vast majority of her is roaring, lost in sensation, waves of orgasm wracking her frame. His continuing instinctual thrusts ease her back to the present, collapsing her onto his chest with sweat lining them both.

“Holy shit,” she whispers, rubbing against him like a satisfied cat. His cock slips out of her and his seed spills onto her thigh, which makes her groan. “Towel, go go go,” she urges him, and he laughs at her commands before doing as she asks.

“That was,” he attempts, “like nothing I’ve had before.” 

“And to think, you were playing all hard to get,” she teases, stretching out and allowing herself to be maneuvered into his arms, splayed across his chest.

“How was I playing hard to get?” he smiles against her mouth, running his hands to warm her skin. Mostly just to touch her. “Maybe for a few minutes, at first. I was trying to keep it professional. But when you walked over with those ridiculous legs of yours, that sad excuse for a neckline? It was a losing battle.”

She gives him a cute peck on the nose. “Of course it was. I’m a consummate winner. You of all people should've know that.” After all, it was him who had come to her once he escaped the clutches of the influencer elite. His hand on her back and his voice in her ear were hypnotizing, and when Domeric slipped away with his model who pouted at the loss of her chance with Lyanna, they had barely lasted another hour before he was leading her out of the private exit towards his hotel. It was closer than hers, and she only has so much patience.

“It’s like, my body is tired, right,” she tells him, after they’ve been petting and making out for a while, “but my brain is still buzzing.”

“I bet,” he sympathizes, then starts to get up from the bed. She looks at him questioningly, and he gestures his head towards the massive bathroom, which was pink marble and gold accents all over. Pretentious. Nice though. “Let’s have a hot shower. You’ve had a stressful day, it’ll help you relax.”

“Hmmm,” she pretends to deliberate, then throws off the sheet, “carry me.”

“Of course, princess,” he murmurs wryly, throwing her over his shoulder to a squawk and indignant kicks from her. He runs it steaming. _Just like you,_ she winks, and he spanks her bum in retaliation.

Of course, they wind up fucking in the shower. That relaxes her just as much as the hot water, at any rate, and she rids herself of any residual makeup using one of the complimentary wipes set out on the expansive counter. They fall asleep intertwined, hair still wet.  
.  
.  
.

She doesn’t wake up completely alone, but he is already dressed and sitting at the base of the bed tying his shoelaces when she finally rouses herself from the sweetness of dreaming. The bland white shirt, blue tie, and black pants he’s wearing are all tailored, starched, and made of clearly high quality. A work outfit, then.

“Back to the wife and kids?” she rasps, propping her head up on one hand. Her face is naked, her hair likely a disaster, and she just now woke up. She’s willing to bet he’ll overlook all that because she’s fairly certain she changed his life last night.

He lets out a sharp laugh, tying the other shoe before turning to face her.

“Morning, world champion.” Oh, she likes the sound of that. He lets out a low whistle, and runs his fingers along her bare calf. “I was about to write a note, you know.”

“A note like, had a great time last night, see you when I see you?” she teases, but naturally she’s disappointed. It was better than good for her but it would seem he doesn’t feel the same.

“As if,” he dismisses her off bat. “I’m on my way to your brother, beautiful. We’re negotiating your terms over the next few days. Ad campaigns, socials, that sort of thing.”

She blinks. “Why am I not invited?” 

He smiles. “You were. Eddard said you would join us tomorrow, but a day off after winning a world championship was the least he could do for you. I agree, but unfortunately, Arthur and I are on a tight schedule. There’s a shareholder meeting we can’t put off at the estate on Thursday.”

“Summerhall?” 

“Sharp memory, but no. Summerhall isn’t quite fit for guests. This is our King’s Landing base, we call it the Red Keep.”

She nods, satisfied. “See you tomorrow then, sir.”

He tilts his head thoughtfully and gives her a furtive little smile. “Well I was hoping we could see each for dinner, actually. Tonight. And tomorrow night. And the night after that. What do you say?”

She seals it with a kiss, and he cops a quick feel when the silk sheets drop away. He leaves her a key to his room and she decides to settle back in for another few hours of blissful rest before ransacking the room service menu on his dime. What else is a sponsor for? When her order comes, there’s a small bouquet of peonies and irises on the tray, and vases full of the same that the maid places around the balcony with a view. Compliments of Mr. Targaryen, the woman says, and Lyanna blows her a kiss.  
.  
.  
.

Three days pass in a whirlwind of sex and food and lawyers. She signs the contracts on Wednesday with a flourish, and Rhaegar suggests a celebratory lunch at his hotel where a celebrity chef has recently taken residence to much acclaim. Ned begs off - he’s flying to Riverrun for the wedding planning, and Arthur claims he has work to complete prior to tomorrow’s shareholder meeting. She and Rhaegar are seated near the window at a table with some privacy, although the piranhas had already snapped them walking into the hotel. Whenever she steps out with a man there’s always speculation, but today she can’t be bothered with the bells and whistles of sneaking around. They only have a few hours left together.

“You’re gonna have trouble with your woman,” Lyanna teases, referencing the earlier pictures of them with his hand on the small of her back over her duck confit, which she can eat now that she’s thrown vegetarianism to the wind. That was for the sake of her drive, an investment in her body and energy levels. Fuck that noise, she thinks, savoring the seared fattiness of her bird and the sautéed vegetable bed beneath it. 

He raises a brow and takes a sip of the pinot noir the house sommelier had paired with the special of the day: an extravagant salmon niçoise salad. She steals a deviled egg.

“Who says I have a woman?”

She rolls her eyes benignly. “Besides the obvious?” He graces her with a smile suited to PR, so she indulges him. “Rich, smart, wicked gorgeous. Hard to imagine you’re playing singles on the tennis court. Also, and I know this is kinda fishing, but I overheard you on the phone the other day and a very sweet voice was calling you some very sweet names.” 

She raises her hands as if disclaiming. “I don’t believe in changing people.”

He looks amused. “Sweet indeed. Her name is Rhaella. The most beautiful woman alive, and,” he pauses dramatically, “my mother. I was the only child for ages, thus she’s quite attached. So am I, to be fair.”

They order a dessert to share from the waiter’s recommendation, and then he leans in, elbows on the table to allow him closer. “That’s not to say there aren’t women whose company I enjoy from time to time. Just as I imagine there are men you might entertain when it suits you. The one from the party with the shots and the models, for example.”

“Nothing escapes you, does it,” she laughs unabashedly. “That’s not quite what it seems. It’s nice to have Domeric around is what I’ll say, but he’s the only _person_ , gender non exclusive, I ever entertain. Even if we were compatible, his mommy issues are way beyond my paygrade. When you do what I do,” she considers her words to make sure she’s explaining it right. “Most people couldn’t understand if they tried and I can’t afford the distraction of another ego. I probably need someone who’s just as busy, but I also want someone who’s committed. It’s a tough balance and it takes time to find that. Time I can’t spare.”

He looks like he empathizes. “Someone who’ll leave you alone but won’t leave you lonely. And no mommy issues, evidently. Too close to home?” 

She shrugs. “Impossible. She died when I was four. Cancer.”

“I apologize, I wasn’t aware.”

“No apology needed,” she breezes, “Wish I could’ve known her. She had a beautiful singing voice and recorded some songs for her kids that I still listen to before my races. It’s comforting, but I think I might be ready to let that tradition go soon.”

“Why’s that,” he inquires, curious, “if you don’t mind me asking.”

She doesn’t. She finds she’s happy to speak about this - there’s a lot that lives only in her head, and sharing is therapeutic. “I guess the more I listen to it, the more I feel like I age those recordings. Hearing them is nice but it sort of freezes her in time, in those months before she died. I tried re-recording them but I can’t hold a tune for shit.” She laughs and shakes her head. “Nobody in my family can. It’s a running gag with us.”

He hums, and holds her hand on the table. The savarin topped with fresh, fluffy, honey-infused whipped cream and thinly sliced candied fruits arrives, and they speak of lighter topics while they share it. She eats a bite off his fork, running her tongue over the barbs playfully.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Oberyn interrupts them, appearing suddenly and grinning. He’s deadly handsome in dark sunglasses, linen pants, and a busy Cavalli shirt with cuffed sleeves that lies open to his firm stomach. 

“Oberyn, good to see you,” Rhaegar greets with familiarity. There isn’t warmth between the two men, but their interaction isn’t cold either. The Dornishman pulls a chair up from an empty table nearby and sits with the back of it between his legs.

“I’m sensing an undercurrent,” Lyanna cuts to the chase, smacking Oberyn’s hand when he nabs her fork to take a sampling of the scrumptious cream and syrup together.

“This is fucking divine.” He snaps his fingers and asks the server if the head chef is able to come out to receive their compliments personally. The server says he’ll check. “Noble Rhaegar nearly married my sister once. She was pregnant, he was doing the honorable thing. Lost the kid and we mailed the engagement ring back. She’s a lesbian now.”

“She always was,” Rhaegar corrects, nonplussed at having his personal business so summarily laid out. Such was the Oberyn effect.

Lyanna hums. “Sounds awful, I’m so sorry.”

Rhaegar sucks his teeth. “It’s been over a decade. Elia remains dear. Thank you, though.”

“Does she remain dear? She told me you flaked on her for dinner last night. Assuming this has something to do with it.” He gestures to Lyanna.

“This?” she asks sharply. Oberyn has done so well at being feminist lately, she’d hate to see that track record broken.

“Sorry, world champion,” he winks at her. “You know I respect women. Especially women who could kick my ass.” 

“And here comes such a woman, I see,” Rhaegar murmurs knowingly into his glass, just as the chef makes her way to their corner. She's a curly-haired Dornishwoman, her exposed arms artfully tattooed and her catlike eyes rimmed in heavy kohl, hips swinging dangerously as she approaches. In other words she’s a perfect dark fantasy, and Lyanna sends Oberyn a glare that he summarily ignores.

“Ellaria,” Oberyn rolls her name off his tongue, elongating each syllable to last an age, “we’ve just shared this sinful savarin of yours. I’ve never had a dessert so utterly...sensual.” He rubs his fingers together as if remembering a long-forgotten pleasure. “Perfectly sweet, with that promise of an aftertaste to last the rest of the afternoon. All you need do is close your eyes.”

“Yeah, it was great!” Lyanna interrupts, wanting to have this over with, and Ellaria thanks her kindly. It really was a fantastic dessert but Oberyn’s flirting is very uncomfortable to be on the sidelines for.

“Indeed, perfect,” Rhaegar agrees, wiping nonexistent crumbs away from his face with a napkin before standing and extending a hand to Lyanna, who takes it gratefully. “We look forward to dining with you again soon, Ellaria.” Lyanna cuffs Oberyn’s ear before they leave and he waves her off, rising to his feet to run his fingers along Ellaria’s bicep art. 

“Can you fucking believe that guy,” she laughs while they ride back up to the suite Lyanna’s spent her past few evenings and mornings in.

“He’s a special breed,” he agrees, swiping the door open. Then he kisses her hungrily, rucking up her sundress the color of caramel that she wore specifically for how easily removed it is, and also because it makes her ass look great. 

His touch is too tender—she doesn’t want anything tentative today. When she clamps down on his lip, he adjusts.

“I’m going to miss you,” she admits uncharacteristically quietly, after he’s fucked her face first into the pillows so hard she’ll feel it for a week. He’s curled to her back, engulfing her in his arms like he wishes they were stuck together, tangling his fingers in her hair, rubbing their calves together, mouthing at her neck lazily.

“We’ll see each other,” he promises.

“Doesn’t change that I’ll miss you,” she pouts, pushing back into his frame. “Like this, I mean. I haven’t felt so close to someone in forever. I liked it is all.”

He makes an acquiescing noise, and rotates her so that she’s facing him. She goes easily, and opens her mouth to his coaxing, letting a noise of pleasure go when he traces her tongue with his. She slides her legs around his body because she’s insatiable, and even when he’s one with her, no part of her safe from his searching hands or mouth, it doesn’t feel like enough.

In the morning there’s a note on the pillow next to her. She doesn’t read it and she doesn’t cry, just packs for Winterfell as quickly as she can.  
.  
.  
.

Ned and Cat’s wedding is a lesson in patience, to put it lightly. The actual ceremony is delightful. Every step of the way there is like being spit roasted over a bonfire.

Lyanna’s a bridesmaid for Ned’s sake, and when she tries to plan bachelorette activities with Lysa, the woman reveals herself to be completely batshit. Great. They end up at some nightclub and hit the spa the next day, an insult to Lyanna’s more imaginative ideas. At the spa, Catelyn looks at her judgmentally when Lyanna admits she’s never had a wax before from fear of pain, so of course she has to do it and save face. It’s fucking excruciating and for no purpose whatsoever. She hasn’t had a lover since Rhaegar and Dorne, which was an entire moon ago.

 _Rhaegar._ Her stomach tightens at the thought of him. They’ve texted a bit here and there and when she was drunk at Cat’s bachelorette party she sent him a mildly sexy video someone took of her at the club. They facetimed the next day and she made a show of bringing herself to orgasm with his name on her lips, which he rewarded her for by returning the favor. The memory sends shivers down her spine.

They haven’t truly spoken, though. Her schedule and personal ethics don’t allow her to wait around for anyone, far too busy and proud for proper yearning, but she finds herself feeling just the smallest bit hollow since flying out of Dorne. _Get a grip,_ she chastises herself. 

By the time Ned and Cat are wed and packed off to White Harbor for their honeymoon (which, honestly), Lyanna isn’t sure what to do with herself. Ben and Brandon are both working, her team is getting much deserved rest, and she still has two moons before pre-season testing starts. Mattia wanted her to take a genuine break, insisting she needed it, so she isn’t even allowed to come by HQ and help out on the new car design.

She has a photoshoot for an ad campaign of one of Dragonstone’s subsidiaries to do, the iconic parfumier House of Tyrell, that she figures she might as well get done while she’s in the region. Her assistant Howland handles the scheduling, and she flies into Highgarden’s cozy private airstrip without issue.

The perfume in question is supposed to be more of an androgynous scent, and in Lyanna’s non-professional opinion it is a more mature perfume. The base is metallic rose that is damn near off-putting for the first ten minutes of application, before releasing an enticing hint of dark spices and ending with top notes of woodsmoke. She’s dressed up in a dozen outfits as well as memorably being stripped naked at the end, and arranged every which way on set to get the shots that the up and coming photographer named Alerie believes suit the fragrance. Lyanna learns that Alerie’s actually married to some member of the Tyrell family, but it’s all very hush hush, so she promises not to tell.

She and Alerie share an early dinner, and then Lyanna drives her restored classic red Ferrari F355 through the beautiful landscape on her way to the boutique hotel Dragonstone is putting her up in. She likes this car because of how it handles in terrain like this, uninterrupted nature with long flat expanses. The current of thrumming from the engine allows her to leisurely make her way without sacrificing the sense of power that speed usually creates, in the beast that is the machine.

She orders a pot of tea to her room and settles into yet another night by herself. She decides to go live on instagram and do a Q&A for the fans, which she’s contractually obligated to do every so often, but when she sees _dragonstone.official has joined_ at the bottom of her screen it kills her mood and she wraps it up, blowing a kiss to the viewers. It was some intern, probably, because that was what she was, a simple investment to bring about profits on whom an eye needed to be kept. Alerie texts and asks if they can meet up in a day or two to go over the shoot, to which Lyanna responds with the address of the hotel, her room number, and a treaty to come by whenever because it’s not like Lyanna’s doing anything at all while here. Just sightseeing and maybe setting plans for an impromptu trip to westernmost Essos. She’s always meant to see the continent.

In a moment of weakness, she fantasizes about going on a lover’s vacation to Lys, rolling around in bed and forgetting what day of the week it is. She cups her own breasts and imagines the soft skin of a woman with a smile that stretches a mile wide, thinks about turning on her back and feigning rest only for a cheeky slap against her ass to put an end to her little façade.

The fantasy quickly morphs into a memory of large hands and purple eyes deeper than a volcano. Lyanna abruptly rips her hands away from her body, particularly the one that had migrated into her tiny sleeping shorts. She’s not gonna sad-masturbate herself to sleep, she huffs, and turns off all the lights to get an early night.

She tosses and turns, still horny but mostly restless. She drives race cars at 350 kilometres an hour for a living. How can it be that anyone expects her to simply glide through this stasis, muscles burning underneath her skin? It’s impossible and Lyanna isn’t happy—needless to say, this isn’t how she expected winning the title to go.

She rises early and drives all the way to Oldtown, where a surprising number of people recognize her and ask for selfies. A couple of young ones come up to her yelling and screaming and she kicks a football around with them for a few minutes, which their moms take pictures of and thank her profusely for her time.

“It’s no trouble,” she shrugs, and picks up one of the girls to kiss her on the cheek. 

“I wanna go fast like you!” the child, Amabel, exclaims, and Lyanna throws her in the air to make her squeal. 

It's dark by the time she gets back to the hotel, and she brushes off the latent loneliness to draw herself a bath. The clock strikes midnight just as she settles into bed, cozy and warm. 

It’s 1 o’clock AM when her phone rings, buzzing her out of her light sleep. She slaps around for it, frustrated at having been woken up.

“Hello?” she asks gruffly, not even looking at the caller ID.

“Lyanna,” an equally wrecked voice breathes out into her ear. She rips the phone to look at it, shocked when she confirms the identity of the caller. It’s _him._ She sits up in bed, throwing the covers down to her feet.

He doesn’t wait for her to respond, just plows forward sounding rougher than she’s ever heard him. Like a man pushed to the brink. “I woke you up, I apologize. But I swear I can’t exist like this anymore. I don’t know what’s happening, I’ve never been like this before. You’re all I think about, Lyanna, and even when I sleep I have _dreams_ of you. I need to see you so badly, I need to touch you again. Please, have mercy on me, I’m begging you.”

“I’ll come to King’s Landing,” she says before she can register her words. In a way, this is what she’s been waiting for. One of them was going to break eventually.

He lets out a harsh bark. “Just open your door, Lyanna.”

She moves without thinking, heart pounding in her chest. The adrenaline running through her veins is a welcome relief after all this time. The door swings open soundlessly and there he stands.

Rhaegar is a beautiful man, certainly, but there are little things about his appearance as he stands there with his phone still pressed to his face that bely his inner turmoil. The stubble around his jaw, handsome but messy. He has dark circles under his eyes, and his high cheekbones are flushed from his passionate speaking.

“Rhae-” she starts, but he tosses his phone towards the couch and seizes her face with both hands to bring their lips together in a clashing dance of desperation and need before she can get the word out. Lyanna responds in kind, never one to be outdone, and they stumble into the attached bedroom without grace, stripping each other bare with greedy hands.

“Oh my fucking god,” she moans, when he throws her high up to the pillows and brings his face between her thighs like he’s starving and her cunt is his oasis. He mewls while he’s eating her, forcing her knees up until she’s spread as wide as she can go. The angle is just incredible and she rapidly builds up to a crescendo, uncontrollable high-pitched gasps falling from her mouth. She comes so hard she gets dizzy. _Guess that wax wasn’t a waste after all_ she thinks hysterically to herself, and pushes him onto his back so she can straddle him. 

“Seven hells, Lyanna,” he groans when she grinds against him, the sounds of their movements utterly obscene.

“Shut up,” she cries, kissing him with his hair gripped tight in her hands, “you fucking asshole, I can’t believe you.” Why he’s a fucking asshole, she couldn’t say, only that he is.

“I know, I’m sorry sweetheart, I'm sorry,” he consoles her, swept up in the moment, wrapping his arms around her protectively. She meant to suck his dick, truly, but instead she reaches down and guides him inside, setting a punishing pace for them both. He lets her, propped up on one elbow with her frenzied mouth on his, his free hand gripping one of breasts and working her nipple to the point of pain.

When she pulls away for air, the look on his face is pure bliss, as if the sensation of her bouncing in his lap and his hands full of her is some sort of religious experience for him. She whines with her whole throat, and pushes his hand down to touch her where they’re joined. He does, bending his legs at the knees to to plant himself and allow him more powerful thrusts, all while keeping an appreciative eye on where he slides in and out of her. 

He succumbs thirty seconds after she does, and she can’t stop shaking in his arms even as he soothes her, rubbing wherever he can reach and whispering sweet nothings in her ears until darkness comes over them both.

In the morning, she wakes up alone.

Tears sting at her eyes as she takes in the state of the room with clothes flung around. Just her clothes, his are notably missing. _Fucking asshole,_ she thinks viciously, until she hears a voice coming from the sitting room area just outside. The sigh of relief that leaves her is unsettling - she shouldn’t react like that for a man she barely knows.

She takes a quick shower and makes herself presentable with a swipe of winged eyeliner and a pair of small golden hoop earrings, throwing on a casual outfit of black jeans and a black shirt and going to give him a piece of her mind.

Except Alerie is seated there, a laptop open in front of her with photo prints spread out as well, and Rhaegar peering over a cup of what Lyanna hopes is coffee.

“Oh. Hey,” she greets, surprised, and Rhaegar smiles when he sees her. She takes a seat next to him, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders before kissing her forehead, seemingly uncaring what Alerie sees.

“Morning, darling,” Alerie greets, giving her air cheek kisses, and getting straight to business after Lyanna fashions a breakfast for herself from the veritable spread Rhaegar must have ordered. “Mr. Targaryen here took a first look and we put together a portfolio for you to approve.” Lyanna dutifully swipes through the pictures and marks which ones she likes and which ones she doesn’t.

When she comes to the ones where flowers alone keep her decent while she’s holding the perfume bottle up in a way that contrasts the curves of the bottle with the curves of her hips, Lyanna parts her lips in surprise.

“You approved these?” she looks at Rhaegar curiously. The contracts specified no nude work. That applied more to the likes of Playboy-type spreads, but she thinks this picture could at least be considered risqué. He doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed.

“Probably not right for the campaign,” he shrugs, before giving her the tiniest smirk, “but I wanted you to see how beautiful you are.” Alerie titters into her tea, and promises to send _those_ pictures directly to Lyanna. They wrap things up, and she feels good about what they chose.

“Give Mace my regards,” Rhaegar tilts his head in farewell to Alerie. 

“Will do, sir,” she chirps, “those of us who live in glass houses must stick together.” Lyanna takes that to mean Alerie won’t go blabbing about what she saw today. 

Once she leaves, Lyanna sinks into Rhaegar’s open embrace and pinches him after she’s had herself a cuddle. “You left me to wake up alone again.”

“It wasn’t my intention,” he says, appearing genuinely apologetic, “awakening with you in my arms is the sweetest pleasure. It’s frustrating, how difficult it is for us to get any privacy.”

She hums. “Feels like we should probably talk a bit, doesn’t it?”

“Believe it or not, that’s what I meant to do last night,” he grimaces, and Lyanna laughs. “I don’t believe you, but go on.”

“Lya,” he says affectionately when he tugs at her hair, using her nickname for the first time before going serious, “I must be honest with you. My life is quite complex, and often extremely busy. I haven’t had the capacity for a partner in a long while. When I met you,” he rolled the words around in his mouth for a moment, shedding whatever few shields he still had up. “You’ve captivated me entirely. I thought it would be difficult to go back to my life after those days in Dorne, but it’s been _impossible._ You haunt me morning and evening. What we did the other night, on the phone...I’ve hardly slept since then.” He takes her hands in his, “I know the timing is terrible. Our schedules are ridiculous. But I’ve found it beyond me to let you go.”

She sighs. It’s gratifying to hear those words, to know she’s not alone in this. But the truth presents it’s own problems, and she’s practical. “You have to know I feel the same way. But what can we really do? In two months I get back in the car, and that's my entire life. If you even suspect you might not be able to deal...I don’t know, Rhaegar. We haven’t had time to build a foundation yet, we can barely even go outside together without being mobbed.”

He takes her face in his hands and she kisses his palm. A simple touch such as this brings her so much joy. It should be crazy, but it just feels right, and Lyanna always trusts her instincts.

“If we both feel this way,” he speaks earnestly, determinedly, “then there’s a place in Dorne. It’s secluded and small, I only bought it to save Arthur a headache from some family inheritance issues, but ended up falling in love with restoring it. Let’s go away for a while, darling Lyanna, and see what a life between us could be. I couldn’t bear to lose you without ever trying.”

That was the right thing to say. Like him, Lyanna needs to know for sure. She touches her lips to his, speaking softly when she says, “kidnap me, Rhaegar Targaryen.” He doesn’t hesitate to make a true kiss of it, bringing her up into his arms and swinging her around the room to playful protest from her.

She only texts Howland the change in travel plans when she arrives at the airfield where Rhaegar’s small plane rests. She compiles a list of clothes and such to be mailed from her apartment to the address Rhaegar provides her, to which Howl sends her a selfie of him and his girlfriend Jia giving her the middle finger. She saves it for use on his birthday.  
.  
.  
.

Once all the white sheets covering the furniture are removed, the grand windows thrown open to a view of the nearby fishing village, and the dust swept away, Lyanna adds ‘a fuckton of flowers’ to their growing grocery list because he brings out the romantic in her. She also carefully wipes down a small harp she found in the large bedroom on the top floor, making a note to ask Rhaegar about this.

“A phone charger,” she pops her head into the monochromatic kitchen where he’s putting his own additions onto their list, “cause I forgot mine at the hotel.”

“You can borrow mine, it's in the outlet on the left nightstand,” he says through a smile when she abandons her tasks to wrap her arms around his sturdy waist from behind. 

“Okay,” she replies happily, hugging him close.

There’s something else that’s been needling at her, that now springs back into her mind. “Wait,” she says, detaching and lifting herself onto the counter, “you said you grew up in Summerhall. And the _estate_ ,” she pronounces that word dramatically, to which he raises his eyebrow in mock offense, “the estate in King’s Landing is called the Red Keep. So what’s the fancy name for this place?”

He leans over her, spanning a hand over the whole of her knee and grinning so wide it scrunches up his eyes. It’s a bit of a funny expression on his normally carefully neutral face, but she loves it. “You know, I haven’t given it one yet. Nothing ever felt right. One occurred to me, though, when we were opening all the windows upstairs. Seeing you here made it obvious.”

“Is that right?” she asks, intrigued and a bit vain.

“Indeed,” he says, lacing their hands together and nuzzling his nose against hers. They’re hopeless. “I’m naming it after you, after us. The Tower of Joy. What do you say?”

"What do I say?" She closes her eyes, her heart and stomach in knots, and wraps her arms around his neck. _If you’re nervous, that means you want something_. “I'd say that sounds like a promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> lella lombardi, who lyanna references, is the actual first/only women to score points in f1 :) she's italian but i made her dornish here cause that makes sense. mattia binotta is the irl ferrari boss and is of course also italian. there are other women who've tried to break into the sport, and women today who do test driving even with the bigger teams, but sadly f1 remains v much a boy's club. barf.
> 
> i put lya in a ferrari cause i just think that's such a classic and sexy car, and also because they have an affinity for the young-older driver combo central to the lyanna-gerold dynamic. ofc i brought her up from sauber because that's the team i'm rooting for at races. the ferrari-sauber pipeline is a real thing!


End file.
